


Ship of Fools

by jedishampoo



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, Shipboard life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sailors are a superstitious lot. A lull in the voyage to the Horn during Beat to Quarters,</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship of Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the HHUS 2006 fanzine. There is a remix out there somewhere, a poem from the point of view of the cat. <3

***  
   
At four bells in the morning watch-- indeed, exactly as the last _ting_ was struck and began to fade-- Captain Horatio Hornblower stepped onto the quarterdeck of _HMS Lydia_ for his daily constitutional.  
   
This was the third morning in a row that he’d timed his arrival so perfectly. He felt a sort of forlorn pride at this minimal accomplishment. Such small, idiotic routine helped him feel more in control, helped him allay his sick impatient despair at their situation.  
   
They were stuck, in a breezeless expanse of the Atlantic somewhere East of Brazil. They were barely two months out of Plymouth on a secret, vital, and _urgent_ mission, and Hornblower had already failed.  
   
The weather side of the quarterdeck-- starboard by habit since there was no real weather to distinguish it from lee-- was clear. Hornblower clasped his hands behind his back and moved smoothly into his morning’s solitary, back-and-forth parade. He did not a glance to either side. He ignored the ship’s cat as it dared to tread upon his sacred quarterdeck, and ignored the faceless sailor who whisked it away with soft clucking noises.  
   
There was nothing to see, even if he had looked at something other than his own shoes. The still-stifling air told him all he needed to know. The sun would be there, sidling above the Western horizon, whited and blurred into an amorphous blob by the haze of the flat, steaming Atlantic. Nowhere would there be a cloud to break the monotony of yellow sea and sky, or to presage a wind.  
   
And because of the utter and complete lack of wind, he could hear more than he needed or wanted: the sweaty grunting of the men, the rasp of each holystone on the decks, Bush and Crystal grumbling at the heat. He would not even be able to bathe after his walk; even with the boats out each day the Lydia was not moving far or fast enough away from her own circle of filthy waste to draw up fresh seawater.  
   
_Doldrums_ was a fitting name for such an airless spot on the globe, Hornblower thought as he spun on his heel to turn. Doldrums. From _dold_ \-- stupid-- dull. Drums-- the incessant, discordant drumming of the men’s knees and feet on the deck. Or rum-- like _rum luck_. The _Lydia_ would never make it to Nicaragua on their present stores, if they did not soon catch a breeze.  
   
At least the present stores were fresh. Soon, Polwheal would brew his morning coffee. The thought lifted Hornblower’s spirits for a giddy moment and he quashed it, unwilling to let go of the foul mood he was enjoying so thoroughly at present.  
   
"It’s cause you lost yer earring."  
   
Hornblower heard the whisper, clear as a ship’s bell in a lull between scrapes of the deck. It was one of the men on the foc’sle, unaware he was being overheard by his captain.  
   
"Nah, tain’t me. It weren’t even real gold," came the quick whispered reply. _Oldroyd._ Hornblower would have recognized his smarmy tones anywhere. "’Sides, I got me another, see?"  
   
"What? Why?" That was someone new, one of the landsmen pressed in Plymouth.  
   
"Which you got offa Jones," came a reply. It was Styles, who was practically incapable of whispering. "Shouldn’t be wearin’ it, anyway. Losin’ an earring is bad luck. Wearing one offa dead man is worse, it is. Probably is you causin’ all this. Sure it ain’t poxed?"  
   
"Dr. Hankey cleaned it for me hisself."  
   
"Hope you cleaned it again," Styles told him, to the choked guffaws of the group.  
   
"What?" asked the new man.  
   
Hornblower couldn’t understand what they found so hilarious in spouting such idiotic nothings to each other. Silence was far preferable if one had nothing useful to say. He himself had vowed to speak as little as possible during the entire voyage. He was sorely tempted to break that vow already, however, for the satisfaction of yelling at them to be quiet. But no, it wasn’t necessary. There was Matthews coming to set them straight.  
   
_Good old Matthews_. Hornblower felt a small twinge of regret at his exalted position as captain, that position that so distanced him from any of the camaraderie of his youth. Now, even his first lieutenant and friend William Bush could be no true companion. Where did that leave a mere bosun’s mate?  
   
"Clap it, you lot, ‘fore Harrison comes by here with his cane," Matthews told them.  
   
"Oh, Lord, look up there!" Oldroyd exclaimed, and all the men, Matthews included, craned their faces skyward. Hornblower could see their rounded eyes in his peripheral vision. He forcibly restrained his own gaze from drifting upwards.  
   
"One, two, three," Matthews breathed. "Oh no."  
   
"Can’t be one of us, we all saw ‘em. Keep an eye out for the next one up ‘ere," Styles told someone, presumably the landsman, forgetting nearly every attempt at a lowered tone. "Three gulls overhead, means someone’s gonna die."  
   
_No, you fool, it means that either land is near or we’re the only thing out here,_ Hornblower wanted to say aloud. But he didn’t. He had little patience for the seaman’s numerous superstitions. He preferred mathematical or scientific fact, based on observation. The presence of _sea_ gulls at _sea_ was nothing out of the ordinary. But even the most sensible old sailor could be startled by the appearance of an astonishing number of perfectly normal things.  
   
There were a few moments of blessed silence. Then Hornblower heard the huffing _clop, clop_ of the surgeon, Hankey, as he waddled his way up from below.  
   
"Oh, Lord," Oldroyd whispered again. "Ship without a surgeon’s a terrible thing."  
   
"What?" asked the new fellow.  
   
Hornblower clasped his hands harder, as if they could control his tongue from the vicinity of his lower back. He clasped so hard his fingernails dug into his wrists. He wanted to inform them that Hankey would be done in by his fondness for drink, someday, but seagulls no matter their number had nothing to do with it.  
   
He was saved from speaking, again, this time by the appearance of Bush. _Good old Bush_.  
   
"Pipe down," Bush growled in a low voice at the assembled group of noisy fools. "Can’t you see the captain’s taking his morning walk?"  
   
"Sir. Sir. Sir," came the whispered, apologetic chorus. This was followed by a loud _miaow_.  
   
"Aaaahh!" cried the hapless landsman. "Black! Throw it off the ship!"  
   
"I’ll have you at the gratings for another outburst like that!" Bush whispered as loudly as he dared, and Hornblower could see his first lieutenant sneak a peek up at the quarterdeck. "Are you done? Then clean this mess up, you lazy fools. Here, puss, puss. There’s a good puss."  
   
"Black cats ain’t unlucky at sea," Styles explained as they picked up their stones and buckets and cloths. His voice faded somewhat as the group moved off the foc’sle. "And we don’ want to upset ‘er, neither. We want a wind, not a storm, you idjit."  
   
"Oh," someone said, and then they were blessedly out of hearing.  
   
Hornblower privately felt that cats were a nuisance, if an unavoidable one on a ship full of livestock and rats. But they were neither lucky nor unlucky. _And the goddamned cat wasn’t even black_ , _really,_ he thought.  
   
***  
   
After his hour’s walk, Hornblower spared a brief word for Bush about the weather, or lack thereof, then went down to his cabin to console himself with coffee.  
   
His steward, Polwheal, sensed his captain’s mood and did not attempt to speak. He handed over the steaming cup and, with a quick knuckle to the forehead, left Hornblower in peace. _Good old Polwheal._  
  
Still Hornblower’s mood did not improve, even when breakfast appeared. The air in his cabin was even thicker than on deck and the slight, constant bobbing without momentum was somewhat nauseating. The Pacific might as well be as far away as the moon, for all the progress _Lydia_ was making.  
   
After breakfast Hornblower considered taking out his now-unsealed orders and reading them through once more, to see if they concealed any threat of repercussion in case of tardiness in their execution. Then he discarded the idea as foolish. His mind knew the document by heart already, both what was in the lines and between them.  
   
All he could do was wait. And the cabin no longer offered refuge, both because of the stifling closeness and the whispering going on between Polwheal and some other idiot outside the door.  
   
"Lookit ‘er. She’s got a nice fat rat. That’ll make her happy."  
   
There was a small wheeze, and a thump.  
   
"A sneeze! Rain’s on the way, praise the Lord. There’s a good kitty."  
   
_Fools_. Hornblower made extra noise scraping his chair back from the table, and the gangway was empty when he emerged from the cabin. He stepped up to the quarterdeck again, to get an update on their lack of progress. Surely his officers would be keeping themselves busy doing something other than talking nonsense. _If they weren’t, by God--_  
  
But all was as well as could be expected. Below him Bush and Gerard were supervising the lowering of the boats, to be rowed out for a good few hours’ towing. Perhaps today would be the day they would haul the _Lydia_ into her much-needed breeze.  
   
"Get along, there!" Bush was yelling, in a very officer-like way. "Any slower and we’ll be drifting backwards! Do you need a few swats to speed you about your business?"  
   
"Look, Mr. Bush," Gerard was saying. Hornblower watched him point down into the sea somewhere for’ard. "Shark. That’s odd, to see them here, is it not?"  
   
Bush took a few moments’ look then shouted once more at the men. "He can’t get you in the boats, you lubbers, not unless I kick you in with my boot! Faster! That’s no shark, Mr. Gerard, I believe it’s a dolphin." This last was said in a lower, almost conversational tone.  
   
"No, no, Mr. Bush. It’s a shark. See the fin, there?" Gerard shook his head. "Not good. The men don’t like it. Sharks can smell death, you know."  
   
Hornblower gritted his teeth. _Now Gerard?_ Why was it that one seemed to assume that good-looking people were more sensible? That surely was not the case, else Gerard would be the smartest man on the ship. Yet there he was, blathering nonsense with the rest of them.  
   
"No, it’s a dolphin. Two of ‘em," Bush was saying. "And those are a good sign, Mr. Gerard. We’ll get our wind today, for sure."  
   
Unable to restrain himself, and with everyone’s attention focused elsewhere, Hornblower craned his neck slightly. To him, it looked like both a shark _and_ a dolphin were swimming around the ship. Perhaps they were attracted by the waste?  
   
His lieutenants seemed to notice Hornblower, then, and leaned their heads closer together and lowered their voices to continue their vital debate.  
   
They were probably discussing whether or not one might eat the other, thus tipping the scales of luck. Or perhaps they ruminated on the possibility of the good luck and the bad luck canceling each other out, and absolutely nothing continuing to happen. _Chew on that, gentlemen_ , Hornblower thought. He chewed on the inside of his lip to keep from saying the thought aloud. He had a headache. He _would_ re-read his orders.  
   
"I’ll be below, Mr. Bush," he condescended to say, then made his escape once more. He had just re-seated himself with the papers before him on the table when he heard a _miaow_ from the vicinity of the floor.  
   
And there was that infernal cat again, sitting calmly on her haunches and staring up at him, eyes glowing yellow from the lantern-light in the dimness. Hornblower barely bothered to wonder how she’d gotten into the great cabin; cats could slither into the damndest places. He stared at her, narrowing his eyes as if in anger or threat. She only stared back, great yellow cat eyes unblinking. He had been right earlier; she really wasn’t all black. There was a bit of white, right on the tip of her ear and on her starboard paw.  
   
Hornblower shrugged and looked at his papers. But he couldn’t focus to read, so intent and annoying was the cat’s gaze. He briefly considered hollering for Polwheal to come and take her away, but then contented himself by making shooing motions. He even nudged her with his boot. The cat didn’t move a hair, simply gazed at him.  
   
Hornblower stared at her for a few minutes longer. He was alone. He sighed and shrugged again. Then he reached down to pat her on the head, twice. Her fur was soft. He would need to wash his hand.  
   
"Puss," he said.  
   
The cat yawned, stretched, and then jumped up onto a bookcase and nudged open the window to make her silent escape.  
   
Alone at last, Hornblower bent to read his papers. Then he was conscious of a strange feeling, a movement he couldn’t identify. It took him a few moments to realize that the Lydia was moving, faster than the boats could possibly tow. A light breeze whisked through the cracked window, cooling the sweat at his brow. Men were yelling and laughing all over the ship.  
   
_Goddammit_ , Hornblower said to himself, then forced himself to finish reading his orders before going up on deck.  
 

 **End: _Thanks for Reading!_**  
  



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